Bow To Your Partner
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: A look into the life of 18-year-old Shannon Bieste. Daughter, sister, football player, square dance partner and make-up enthusiast.


Title: Bow To Your Partner

Author: Silverkitsune

Warnings: None

Rating: PG-13

Summary: A look into the life of 18-year-old Shannon Bieste. Daughter, sister, football player, square dance partner and make-up enthusiast.

Author's note: I wrote this back in April, had it betaed by the wonderful tumblr user teiledesganzen, and then of course had no time to look at it again. Until now that is.

I did have square dancing as part of public school gym class, so this is everything I remembered from those classes. I am sure that if you go into higher levels of this the dances get much harder.

Comments and critique are welcome.

* * *

In October the stomach flu swept through West Riverside High School like a wave and dragged off a majority of the student body. No one worried. Flu epidemics happened. Classes would be smaller, the teachers a little more lax and if you were truly lucky you caught a mild strain and spent a week napping on the comforts of your own couch.

It wasn't until gym class, when Mrs. Harris instructed them to pair off; boy, girl, boy, girl that the decreased population became a cause for concern.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then a flutter of movement. There were eight people in Shannon's Monday morning gym class. Five girls. Three boys. Jason and Amy were dating, and clasped hands like they'd been waiting forever for permission. Sarah-Beth wrinkled her nose at Malcolm, and pointedly stretched her hand out to Brian. Katy scooped up Malcom, which left Shannon Beiste and Cynthia Wickstrom alone and doing their best to not make eye contact.

Mrs. Harris was crouched on the floor, shuffling through a stack of tapes.

"Today we start square dancing," Mrs. Harris called over her shoulder.

Cynthia head snapped up so fast that Shannon thought she heard her neck crack.

"It'll last a week," Mrs. Harris continued. "I hope you chose your partner wisely because they're who you're with until Friday."

"Mrs. Harris," Cynthia squeaked. "There aren't enough boys!"

Music echoed through the gym, something with fiddles and the loud booming voice of a man who instructed that they 'swing their partners'.

"We can sit out, right?" Cynthia shouted over the music.

"Nice try, Cynthia," Mrs. Harris fiddled with the volume until the music was at a reasonable level. Turning around she sized up the remaining students. "You'll dance with Shannon."

Someone, Shannon thought it might be Jason, snickered. Shannon crossed her arms over her chest.

"Shannon, you'll dance the men's part," Mrs. Harris instructed.

"Just what she's always dreamed," Amy whispered, and Sarah-Beth giggled.

Shannon hunched her shoulders. It was like being in kindergarten again. _Of course you have to play the daddy, Shannon. You're the tallest!_

"Okay, let's get started." Mrs. Harris stood and clapped her hands together.

Cynthia pursed her lips, and jutted her chin into the air.

"Wickstrom don't look at me like I've shot your pony. You want to take a zero for the day?"

"Yes!" Cynthia snapped, looking ready to cry.

"Well, you can't." Mrs. Harris waved her off. "Square dance involves four couples of eight dancers, which is you guys, and the caller, which is me. If it makes you feel better we do line dancing next week, but until then you dance with who I tell you to dance with."

Feeling like a lumbering giant, Shannon gave in and went to stand in front of Cynthia. The other girl was a tiny thing, all big brown eyes, and long black hair teased high. She looked so delicate. Like a bird or a china doll. Someone people would be careful with. Shannon was suddenly terrified of touching her. Convinced that she'd break her.

Mrs. Harris blew her whistle, and then started the music from the beginning. "First thing. Gentlemen, take the hand of your lady. Then bow to your partner."

Unease prickled under Shannon's skin, but she offered her hand anyway. Cynthia narrowed her eyes, taking in the calloused palm, the scrapped knuckles and the chipping neon orange nail-polish.

"Just don't step on my feet you elephant," Cynthia hissed.

Football practice didn't end until someone threw up. It was tradition.

Coach Jansen had the team running suicides, and the entire team raced up and down the length of the field in their pads. Shannon's stomach burned, and her legs screamed as she touched the end of the field before turning around to sprint to the other end. Sweat ran down her temples, and left her hair damp. She could feel her soaking wet sports bra clinging to her chest as she moved, arms brushing against her sides. Smoothly, she pivoted, and then quickly side-stepped to keep from colliding with one of her teammates. In these moments she was a swift and strong as a wave of water. As quick as a fish who swam along the river bottom.

Jeremy Rockman finally did them the honor of puking. Water and bile staining the grass while coach blew his whistle. Shannon grinned, her pace slowing to a trot. Happily, she stretched her hands into the air and breathed deeply as she walked. The evening sky bled pink, yellow, orange and purple, and Shannon felt drunk on sunshine and accomplishment.

"Always good when it ain't me," Ant crowed, and slapped Shannon on the back. "Right, Beiste?"

"You can lead a horse to water, but there's only one way to skin him," Shannon agreed.

Ant shook his head, and the two of them trudged to the locker rooms.

The only big difference between Shannon and the other players was that she changed alone. She wasn't allowed in the boy's locker room, and all the pre-game speeches took place in the hallway or on the bus. Admittedly, Shannon didn't think most of the boys would even give her a second glance if she pulled open a locker and started applying fresh deodorant next do them. She wasn't a girl to them. Not really. Girls were people you held hands with and asked to dances. Girls were for kissing under the bleachers, and losing your virginity with at parties or proms. Football was magic, but it didn't get you asked to the movies.

She didn't mind. The quiet after practice was nice. Humming softly to herself under the warm shower spray, practically glowing with happiness as she carefully scrubbed herself clean.

"You wash that sweat and dirt off your face immediately after practice, honey," her mother had ordered. "I don't want to see that pretty skin breaking out."

Her sister Denise was waiting in the parking lot. The engine of her third-hand (fourth-hand?) maroon Buick Regal rattled and grumbled.

"We still going to the drug store?" Denise asked. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of the window.

"Yeah, I'll be quick I swear." The window wouldn't open all the way. Shannon pressed her palm against the glass, and carefully eased it home. The night was cooling everything down, and the wind brushed across her skin pulling goosebumps to the surface as the car picked up speed.

Denise shrugged. She fiddled with the radio until _I Want To Be Your Man _slid out of the one working speaker. "Take as long as you want. I've got nowhere to be."

The florescent lights from the drug store hummed above their heads as Shannon picked up a lavender shaded lipstick. She flipped it over to read the name: _Shy Violet. _She put it to the side, and the picked up a delicate pink (_Blushing Virgin)_. She studied it for a minute, and then swapped it with a darker shade (_Butterfly_ _Kiss)._

Make-up always had such pretty names. Shannon was sometimes jealous of them. She was always going to be _Shannon_ no matter if a boy or girl had landed in the doctor's arms. It meant 'wise river' a fact she had, erroneously, shared with her second grade class. She'd been "Old Man River" until the end of the year.

Checking that no one was watching, Shannon popped the cap and drew a slash across her wrist with _Butterfly Kiss_ to test its compatibility with her skin. She didn't like it.

Two bottles of nail polish, one sky blue (_Sea Forever_) and the other gold (_Royal Star_) clinked together softly from where they were cradled in her right hand. She had a game tomorrow, and she wanted her school's colors on her fingernails. Wanted to pretend that she bled pride out of her pores even if the pastel was far too light to be mistaken for the dark navy blue that fluttered on the skirts of the cheerleaders and streaked across her football helmet.

"Why do you spend your money on this junk?" Denise asked. "Make-up is just a way to make us feel stupid about how we really look."

A peach lipstick (_Perfect Pumpkin) _and a dark red (_Ruby Slippers) _entered the testing pile. Shannon held the red one up to the bad light. She imagined the kind of words that might come out of a mouth this color. Red was a powerful color. She wondered, if she wore this color would words from another world come pouring out of her mouth? Important sentences that she could share with the people around her? Ones that would make people see her as something good and lovely without losing the bits that were strong and solid.

"It's fun," Shannon defended.

"It's degrading," Denise said. "We shouldn't have to paint ourselves up to get noticed."

Gloves were part of the football uniform, but for a moment Shannon pictured her hands naked as they closed around the football. She could see the widening eyes of the opposing team under their helmets as they noticed her colorful nails. Saw the puzzlement turn to shock as they realized there was a girl on the field.

It was a stupid dream. Something a movie would do right before Beiste grabbed the ball and ran a game winning touchdown. The other team _always_ knew who she was. Word had spread pretty fast about the girl playing under the gold and blue colors (Though most of the time, before they noticed the name on the back of her jersey, they thought "the girl" was their kicker Harvey. He was the smallest guy on the field).

Ant told her that other coaches sometimes let their boys know exactly who she was before a game, and more than one boy had tried to show her what "real football" was all about. "Real football" always seemed to involve them trying to knock her down.

"I don't think not getting noticed is ever going to be my problem," Shannon said dryly.

Denise looked surprised and then sorry. She reached over the pluck _Perfect Pumpkin _and _Ruby Slippers_ out of Shannon's hand.

"How about I buy these for you," Denise said. She nudged her shoulder against her younger sister's. Denise had to get on her tiptoes to reach it, but Shannon appreciated the effort. "Like a good luck present or something for the game tomorrow."

Shannon smiled, and followed her sister to the register.

The week trudged along and Shannon learned that _Ruby Slipper _was the perfect lipstick for her, that as long as she kept her stomach empty in the three hours before football practice she would never be the one to puke, and that Cynthia Wickstrom was about as graceful as a water-buffalo.

"Wickstrom!" Mrs. Harris said. "Is there anyone in your square that you haven't taken to the floor yet? This isn't wrestling. Do you have led in your shoes?"

Cynthia's face flushed a delicate pink that spread over her nose and cheekbones. Cynthia was the kind of girl who probably even looked pretty when she cried. Shannon offered her dance partner a hand up, and was surprised when Cynthia took it.

"I can't move like she wants me to." Cynthia almost wailed. "You can do it! Why can't I do it?"

Shannon rubbed the back of her neck. In truth she had no idea why she'd taken to dancing like a duck to water. Prior to this class moving her body in a way that filled her with joy and freedom was a magic only tapped into on the football field.

"Maybe it's just the part I'm dancing," Shannon said. "Maybe you could try the men's part and I'll dance the lady part and that'll be easier for you."

Cynthia's face grew dark and her mouth twisted. Shannon put her hands up, and planted her feet the way she would when preparing to be tackled by the rival team.

"How will it work better!" Cynthia snapped. "They're practically the same damn moves for either side! The only difference is who gets to lead, and what direction you spin!"

Shannon didn't argue. There was no point.

"Cynthia don't you leave this square!" Mrs. Harris shouted, close on the heels of her furious student as Cynthia stomped away.

As Cynthia parked herself on the bleachers, coolly crossing one ankle of the other, and showing no interest whatsoever at getting up Shannon sighed. She couldn't wait for line dancing. There was much less chance of stepping on delicate feelings when she only had to dance with herself.


End file.
